Page 167 of Chasing Headlines

Timeout expired. Antonio took a couple of practice swings then stepped into the box. He dug one cleat into the dirt. Logue, the Arizona closer, he had a tell. There was an extra tap of his left cleat ahead of the pitching rubber. One tap, two tap, his shoe lifted?—

Coop broke for second. Logue delivered a strike at the plate. Pereira, the catcher, threw from one knee, but it was too high. And a good fraction of a second too late. Coop slid into second and called for time.

Watching him brush himself off, and readjust was a sight on its own. Baseball pants were a very . . . special article of clothing. Maybe one day, I'd get the honor and privilege of stripping them off—Oh shit.

Coop grimaced and gripped his helmet. He bent down. His shoulders shook.

I gasped, and started toward him. Took two steps, then realized what I was doing. He grazed the tips of his fingers over his shoelaces like he was checking them, straightened and nodded at the ump.

He wasn't checking his laces.That arrogant sonofabitch. He's trying to hide it. Don't do this to yourself.I blinked and tried to make it look like I'd moved to get an angle on Antonio. I snapped a set of pictures of him in burst mode.

He dug back in and settled into his stance.

The night air sang with electricity. Tied at two and two, the home team up to bat with one out in the bottom of the ninth, and a runner in scoring position. The crowd stood, clapping, hollering. A lyrical chant broke out: “Let's go Strikers.”

Antonio stepped out of the box. He tugged at his cap, brushed his left forearm—signaling something. Eberhardt nodded and signed back. I had not yet gotten up to speed on their super-secret team baserunning signals. I needed to ask for a copy.

Or bribe Cathy.

Nevins signed at Coop, touching his hat, his belt. He tapped the top of his helmet, then glanced down. Antonio was back in the batter's box. Coop stepped off the bag and took a long stride toward third.

Logue glanced over his shoulder at second base. The monitors above showed his bland features. Sweat dripped down the side of his jaw. He squinted, then went back into his set. As soon as the pitcher's arms came to a stop at his chest, Coop jumped.

His long, powerful form tore down the baseline. Legs pumping, his cleats tossed sand and clay behind him. Pereira stood, received the ball. He turned on a dime as Antonio dodged out of the way. Coop dove headfirst, right arm stretched as long and far as it could go?—

I hit the button on my camera again. I caught images of the dirt spraying the bag, Coop's gloved hand and stretched form. The umpire with arms spread like an airplane.

“Safe!”

The noise from the crowd amplified. My own heart pounded like I'd just sprinted ninety feet. Cameras flashed from the stands. Some famous rock band's tension-building electric guitar bridge blared from the loudspeakers.

Coop stumbled as he stood up. Eberhardt placed a hand on his shoulder, spoke to his player. Coop shook his head.He's denying it. That-that idiot. Can't we pull him?I glanced around, but . . . Antonio was still at bat. Meyers was around . . . but he was busy hitting on Remi. Poor thing. I had no doubt she got her fair share of attention while tending to injured male athletes.

Maybe she could use some help?I could wrap ankles and smack people with ice packs. I knew the first person I'd recommend being duct taped to a traction table . . . for several days.

Eberhardt stepped back, and out of the way. He nodded at the ump. Antonio tugged on his cap and resumed his stance in the batters' box. The count one and one.

Coop ninety feet from home plate. Zimmerin, our nine-hole batter on deck. We shouldnotrest any of our hopes on that guy. The senior playing second base was an OK fielder. As I'd told Schorr, he'd made too many errors last season. And his bat? Well, nine-hole hitters were the tail of the order for a reason. His reason was he couldn't handle pressure situations.

Pressure situations like: one out, tie ballgame, our winning run at third.

All Antonio needed to do was hit a nice, long sacrifice fly. Coop could tag up, and beat the throw to home by a Texas mile.

The Arizona outfielders moved closer to the infield.

I'm sure there were other happenings, but my eyes remained glued to Coop. I'd studied him in playing film, on TV. Taking reps in practices, multiple times a week. But this was the first time in a real-life game situation.

And I wished to God he wasn't out there . . .

Why? What's wrong with me?

Breslin POV

I've read millions of words about baseball: strategies, memoirs, scouting reports. Watched probably a few hundred hours of what is still referred to as 'film'—including recent videos of Logue. My job as a ballplayer was more multifaceted than just hitting and fielding.

I knew what to watch for. I knew when to attempt a steal. I also knew the stats on stealing home. The same as I knew the stats on sac flys. And what a misnomer the term really was.

Most of the time, a sacrifice fly came down to luck. And with the infield playing deep, the outfield playing shallow, Arizona knew what was coming.

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